


I Didn't Mean To Fall In Love

by ninwrites



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dancing, Demons, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fluid Sexuality, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gift Fic, Gift Work, Girls Kissing, I couldn't help myself, Kissing, Light Angst, Lydia Branwell & Alec Lightwood Friendship, Lydia is basically the female-version of Alec, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Songfic, Supportive Alec Lightwood, Supportive Magnus Bane, based on a halsey song, demon hunts, exam procrastination - me, girls are cute, i rushed the summary, isn't izzy great, lybelle, not as dramatic as the summary seems, potentially requited love, slow build but not really, so many appearances from magnus and alec, warrior girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninwrites/pseuds/ninwrites
Summary: Lydia Branwell has always had a plan for her life. Get married, run the Lisbon Institute, die in the throes of a strategically planned battle. Now, all of that is gone, and all she has is the dreams of a life she'd once believed she could lead. 
She hadn't, however, factored in the presence of a certain Isabelle Lightwood, or the effect it would have on her plans. Can she just change the route of her life, or will she crash and burn in the remnants of unrequited love? Will she ever get back what she lost?
Based off 'Is There Somewhere?' by Halsey.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notcrypticbutcoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcrypticbutcoy/gifts).



> Thank you for bringing this OTP to my attention. Thank you for all your support and your endless kindness and your everpresent awesomeness. Your comments make me smile and I always anticipate hearing what you have to say. I like to believe that we've built a solid friendship on here, and I'm so excited to venture further into the fanfic-universe with you.
> 
> This fic is a product of queer representation (or lack thereof), beautiful women, a wonderful friendship, a terrific song and copious amounts of tea. Oh, and, of course, Vulturemonem. You can also thank her. <3
> 
> -
> 
> Title from the song. Edited by me, all mistakes are mine - and apologised in advance for.

"Come dance with me."

Isabelle's hand is outstretched, her nails painted a gleaming, insidious black. Lydia stares at them for a moment too long, her cheeks heating in the stuffy hotel room.

"You know I don't dance, Iz."

Isabelle pouts, her red lips startingly bright. "Fine. Your loss."

She's clad in a thin pink camisole, black shorts with lace trimmings and baggy white socks, scrunched at her ankles. Her dark hair hangs loose, a curtain of midnight thread framing her delicate features.

They're supposed to be on a mission, staking out a potential rogue Shadowhunter. The hotel - if you can even call it that - is cheap and crumling, with thin sheets and dim globes, and a door that locks itself more often than they do. It smells of dust and old, peeling wallpaper, and is barely worth the price of a night's stay.

Isabelle doesn't appear too bothered. She presses shuffle on her iPod, a mundane invention Simon had bought for her birthday, and prances around the limited space of the two-bed room. Her movements are elegant, graceful, her arms swaying around her in fluid movements matching the music, spinning on her toes, her hair trailing after her like a bride's veil.

Lydia would dance with her. If she had the confidence. Or the nerve. A head-strong Shadowhunter she may be, but when it comes to uncontrollable matters of the heart, she's as naive as a freshly ascended mundane.

The room is barely lit, most of the light coming in from the neon VACANT sign right outside their window. When Isabelle glances over, her eyes flashing, it's almost enough to chase away the shadows.

She's in a precarious position, an arabesque that reminds Lydia of the little ballerina that danced in her aunt's music box, when there's a sudden crack, like a boom of thunder.

Lydia has a seraph blade in hand, named and all, by the time Isabelle, already clad in a tough leather jacket, hands her _stele_ over.

"Here," Isabelle smirks, adrenaline-fuelled anticipation glinting in her eyes. "You'll need this."

"Demonic or human?"

Isabelle tugs on her boots, flipping her hair over her shoulder in one, smooth movement. "Is there really a difference?"

Lydia frowns - she's not really supposed to condone such inappropriate comments, but it's hard when Isabelle is looking at her the way she is. Like Lydia is the sun poking through after a raging thunderstorm. Like she's worth the heat of such a gaze.

"Mundanes aren't demonic, Isabelle." Lydia tries to chastise, but her grin betrays her.

"Perhaps not, but they're both a pain in my ass."

Lydia is saved from replying when there's another booming crash, like fractured wood.

"That one was a lot closer," She whispers, scribbling on a few quick runes, _Agility_ and then, almost as an afterthought, _Sight_.

Isabelle is already at the door, seraph blade in front of her, silver whip at her side. In battle, Lydia has found, Isabelle resembles a snake - poised, sleek and dangerous.

"These guys picked the wrong girls to mess with." Isabelle kicks the door down.

Ravener demons. Five of them. Messengers, really. Not worth the time or energy that they'd spent waiting in that horrific hotel.

Lydia frowns in frustrated concentration. "We spend all evening in there for _this_?"

One of them hisses. Isabelle stabs it with her seraph blade, eyes blazing with the reflection of the glowing weapon and the thrill of the hunt. "Now we get our own back."

The wooden floorboards are scuffed with char marks within ten minutes. The fight has barely begun before it is over, Lydia slicing one clean in half, Isabelle strangling another with the metal coil of her whip.

Isabelle wipes her forehead with her arm and grins, the adrenaline of battle lighting her up. "That was easy."

Lydia scoffs out a laugh. "Would you prefer it to be harder?"

Isabelle shrugs, her slim shoulder glistening with sweat. There's a few beads collecting at the base of her neck, too, and Lydia has to force herself to look away. Now is not the time.

(Not that there is ever really an appropriate time to lust after a friend.)

"It almost wasn't worth it." Isabelle explains. "Training is harder than that."

Lydia laughs softly, and glances at the burn marks on the wall. "We're going to have to clean that up," She sighs, dejectedly.

Without warning, Isabelle grabs her wrist and tugs her towards the room. "Alec can do that. Or Jace. Tomorrow. It's not like anyone is really going to see it."

Lydia glances back at the marks dubiously. She doesn't like the idea of leaving the remnants of a demon horde in the open where anyone - any _mundane_ \- could see them.

But Isabelle's hand is warm and firm around her wrist, and she's left with little choice but to follow. She pulls the door shut behind her once they've walked in, hyper-aware of Isabelle's elegant fingers still wrapped around her.

Her blood is pumping, hot and fluid in her veins, her heart beating with a slightly increased speed, still running off excess energy, but it falters when Isabelle glances back, a curious look in her eyes.

"I'm not really that tired." She comments, her nose twitching in a way that Lydia refuses to acknowledge as adorable.

"Neither."

Isabelle purses her mouth, forehead scrunched in thought. There's not much to do in the confined walls of a crummy hotel with splotchy carpet and creaking mattresses, but attempting to sleep now will just result in wasted hours of painful insomnia.

"Have you ever watched mundane television?" Isabelle inquires.

Lydia shakes her head. "No. I've never had the chance."

"Neither have I," Isabelle grins and flops gracefully onto one of the single-beds. "Not properly. Care to join?"

It's tempting. It's oh, so tempting - and it's a _bad idea_. Because it would mean sitting next to Isabelle, close, blood singing, heart pumping, skin tingling with the lack of distance between them, Isabelle's glittering dark eyes and her blood red lips-

"Sure," Lydia says, before she can stop herself.

It's a bad idea. It is a _Bad Idea._ But Lydia does it anyway.

Isabelle's arm brushes against hers as she sits down, sparks flickering at the touch. Lydia breathes in deeply, centering her erratic and chaotic energy. This is nothing. They're just going to watch some mundane TV. See what all the fuss is about - considering Clary and Simon (and Magnus, for that matter) continuously sing it's praises.

They find some cheesy romance movie, something that has two confusing timelines and a girl who thrashes around in the water and talks about being a bird. It's weird, but kind of interesting, and Lydia finds herself reluctantly drawn into the tale.

Her breath sticks in her throat when Isabelle shuffles closer and lies her head on the blonde girl's shoulder. Her soft hair brushes Lydia's chin; it smells of coconut and vanilla and for a few seconds Lydia's pretty sure she stops breathing.

It's weird to inhale the scent of somebody else's hair. Lydia tries not to do it. Somehow, she fails.

Isabelle sighs, her exhale of breath warm against the column of Lydia's neck. Lydia's skin buzzes, the phantom ghost of lips breezing over her collarbone.

She hadn't expected this, when she'd made the decision to stay in New York. There had been offers, of course, for her to return to Alicante and start a new chapter of her life in the city of the Nephilim themselves.

She couldn't do it. Despite being abandoned at the altar, ignored in the aftermath, almost killed for being on the side of the good guys, _despite_ not having a foreseeable future - she couldn't just walk away. Something had pulled at her, something had struck a chord in her and convinced her to stay.

Up until now, she'd always been sure that it was for the comraderie. For Alec, who'd returned to her side in the infirmary every day despite missing his _parabatai_ half, and trying to build his first ever relationship in the off-hours. To help them all find Jace - who'd told her that she _always_ had a place if she wanted it.

Perhaps, there was more to it than that.

Perhaps, she'd stayed for more reasons than she'd first been aware of.

  


* * *

  


Lydia had loved John.

Loved him with every breath she took and from the very depth of her soul. (She still does love him, when she allows herself to, though not as much anymore, as it hurts too much.) But they had never been a forbidden ideal. Lydia had never been scared of her feelings for him, never worried about how he would react if he ever found out.

She'd certainly never dreamed about him before.

Recently, she's been dreaming of Isabelle.

Only small flashes, glimpses of dark hair and midnight eyes with constellations inside of them. The neon lights of the crappy motel they'd stayed in, filtering between soft gasps of laughter and hands that are pleasant to the touch, comforting and safe. Lips that pull into a teasing smirk, lips that almost _demand_ to be kissed.

After the third night - in a row - of such dreams, Lydia wakes up, forehead gleaming with perspiration, chest heaving with gasps of shocked air.

She's up within five minutes, enacting her frustration on a tough leather punching bag within ten.

_It's just a crush,_ she repeats to herself, punch by punch. _Nothing more._

Punch.

_Nothing serious._

Punch.

_Nothing I can't handle._

The next swing of her arm falls short, and when her vision clears, Lydia discovers why.

Alec has hold of the punching bag, concern etched into his forehead. Lydia's first thought is of how strange it is to see him here, especially so early in the morning. He's taken to staying at Magnus' more than he's at the Institute; his presence jolts her back into reality and out of her whirling thoughts.

"Hey," Alec says softly, which is weird, because Alec doesn't usually speak like that. His voice is rougher, commanding. That of a leader, firm in his actions, certain - even when he sometimes isn't.

His voice isn't always _serious_ , of course - over the past few months it's taken a lighter, more joyful tone. But it's hardly ever this _soft_.

"Hi." Lydia greets. Her voice sounds weak and, and kind of cold. Odd. Detatched.

"Isn't it a bit early to be attacking the training equipment?" Alec asks. He's trying to joke, but his voice is thin and it's clear that he's worried.

He shouldn't be. Lydia is fine. (It's just a crush, she has it under control.)

"I couldn't sleep." Lydia explains, which isn't that far from the truth. "What are you doing here?"

Alec shrugs. "Morning briefing. Thought I'd come in early. Get a bit of training in."

There's a light blush on the higher parts of his cheeks, and if Lydia was anyone else - namely, if she was Isabelle or Jace - she would comment on it. But she's not, she respects Alec, far too much to embarrass him, in any sense. So she leaves it alone.

"I think my stances are a bit weak," She steps back. "Would you mind-"

Alec nods, curtly. "Sure."

It's safe territory, for the both of them. Shadowhunters are what they are, fighting and training is in their blood, they were literally born for the task. And, it serves as a wonderful stress-reliever.

They work in silence, the only sounds their slightly weighted breathing and the tap of Lydia's fists, their squeaking boots on the freshly-polished floor. It's easy, for Lydia to lose herself in the rythmic movements, all her thoughts and worries and concerns disappearing, if momentarily.

But then Alec grabs her wrists with his broad hands, his grip firm and grounding.

"Lydia," He states her name as though it isn't the first time he's tried to get her attention. There's a chance that it isn't, and she's simply not heard him.

"What?" She asks. "Have I made us late for the briefing?"

Alec shakes his head, but there's something strange buried deep in his eyes, something Lydia can't decipher.

"Is - is something wrong?" Alec asks. "You seem a bit, off."

"I'm fine," Lydia replies, even though she's not.

Alec frowns, and for a moment Lydia contemplates a default answer to any inquires he'll throw at her.

"Okay." Alec smiles. It's one of encouragement and comraderie, letting her know, she supposes, that he's there for her if she ever needs it.

"I'm going to clean up. I'll see you at the briefing?"

Lydia nods, her throat closing for an agonising second. It's sympathy clogging her airways, preventing her breathing. Because even if Alec doesn't know what he's offering his sympathy for, she can see it in the lines of his mouth and the glint of his eyes, nevermind the fact that he spent a good half an hour focusing his energy on training with her.

She hadn't had this web of support at any of her previous Institutes. In Alicante, where she grew up, it was all about preparing for the Academy. And then, when John was around, it was about running their own Insitute.

The Clave don't spare much effort towards personal feelings. Emotions are to be controlled, stress is just a motivator-

But here, in New York, she's found a support group she can be herself with. People who understand that sometimes not everything is okay, and she needs a temporary distraction.

People who are just _there_ for her.

  


* * *

  


Lydia's never been one for mundane culture. Her attitude towards it is very 'take-it-or-leave-it' - she's not fazed that much by the idea of missing out on it.

Isabelle, however, holds a very different view - specifically when it comes to certain areas. Such as clubbing.

"So, you just dance to this weird music?" Lydia asks, upon entering Pandemonium. They were allowed immediate entrance, on account - Lydia suspects - of them being friends with Alec and, by association, Magnus.

Isabelle glances over with a sultry smirk. Her eyes are perfectly lined, her lips a dark purple. She had done all their makeup, Lydia and Clary's too, but in Lydia's absolutely not bias opinion, niether of them look as good as Isabelle does.

It could also, in part, be because of the setting. Isabelle appears to flourish under the pounding multicoloured lights. Her smile is wide, genuine, her eyes sparkling with an intense excitement.

She looks gorgeous. She _is_ gorgeous.

And Lydia is in trouble because of it.

"You more than just dance, Lyd." Isabelle grabs her hand, fingers slotting together. "You enjoy yourself."

Lydia is thankful for the cluster of shadows built between the streams of light. It saves her from the embarrassment of being caught blushing.

Alec is standing at the bar, leaning curiously close to Magnus. It's nice to see them happy, and out in the open, in _public_ , but more than that, to see Alec so comfortable with himself. It fills Lydia with a swirling shot of pride - pride that shouldn't be hers, she has no reason to be proud of him, but she is.

Jace and Clary have already disappeared from sight, either to some corner of the dancefloor or some other area of the club that Lydia would rather not think about.

It's just her and Isabelle, caught in the moment with people packed on either side of them. With Isabelle's hand clutching hers, their bodies pressed together as she leads Lydia through the crowd to the dancefloor.

"I told you, Iz," Lydia protests, half-heartedly. "I don't dance."

There's no halting Isabelle Lightwood when she's determined, though, and for some reason she's determined to dance with Lydia.

"But _I_ do," Comes Isabelle's reply, attatched to a dangerously beautiful smile. "You're not going to make me dance alone, are you?"

_'You could find anyone to dance with,'_ Lydia thinks. It's true. There are literally hundreds of people, Downworlders and mundanes alike, with glassy eyes and slack jaws, staring at Isabelle as she flounces past. She doesn't spare them any attention, though Lydia doubts it's because of a lack of awareness. Isabelle knows exactly how beautiful she is. And she owns it.

_Deadly territory, Branwell._

"Of course not." Lydia tries to smile, though it's weak at the corners.

"That's what I thought."

It starts out slow. Smooth, graceful movements, Isabelle twirling around Lydia, her eyes demure and sleek. Lydia, unsure of what to really do, sticks to somewhat awkward swaying, bobbing of hips from left to right.

The music changes, suddenly, the new song containing a faster beat. The lights flash, erratically, to match the pace of the music. Lydia grins despite herself, swept up in the sudden change of music.

Isabelle is grinning too, the pulsing lights creating twisted shadows over her eyes. Her gaze flickers, and by the time Lydia figures out where she's actually looking, it's a fraction too late.

Isabelle's lips are soft and patient, if somewhat sticky from the lipstick, and at first, Lydia is too shocked to react. But then Isabelle's hand comes up, softly cupping her cheek, and Lydia melts into the kiss.

She's never kissed a girl before - Raziel, the only other person she'd kissed before had been John - so she isn't quite sure what to expect. She quickly finds, it doesn't matter that she's never kissed a girl before. Isabelle knows perfectly well what she is doing, and she is _very_ good at it.

She presses closer, her hand firmer on Lydia's cheek. Her nose bumps against Lydia's, slowly, almost as an accident, her mouth a constant presence. Lydia gasps, her eyelids fluttering half-closed. She wants to _see_ Isabelle, see what her face looks like, but the influx of heightened emotions is just too much and she has no choice but to give in to her internal whims. Her hand flitters in the air, before finding purchase on Isabelle's waist.

Her dress is slim, skin-tight, the silky fabric smooth under Lydia's hand. It's hard to find a proper grip, but when she accidentally squeezes Isabelle's hip, it seems to be less of a problem than she first suspects.

Isabelle archs forward, her hand sliding to grasp Lydia's neck, her other hand snaking around to press against the small of her back. She captures the blonde girl's bottom lip between hers, her teeth nipping gently. Lydia groans, deep in her throat, an unwarranted and unsuspected sound.

"Lyd," Isabelle gasps, her breath ghosting over Lydia's parted mouth.

She tastes like honey and cinnamon, sugar and spice and something that bites. It sends a delicious shiver down Lydia's spine. She steps forward, her hip bumping Isabelle's. She doesn't want the kiss to stop. Stopping such a kiss feels like a crime.

"This," Isabelle murmurs, swiping her tongue across Lydia's bottom lip. "This is where it begins."

It sounds like a personal thought she's accidentally let slip, but Lydia isn't left with a chance to question it. Isabelle tugs her forward, as she carefully side-steps backward, her mouth still attatched to Lydia's. She moves, begins kissing along Lydia's jaw, and Lydia cranes her neck in a slack-jawed notion of trapped pleasure.

Isabelle's mouth is hot, burning a fiery trail along the cut of Lydia's jaw. The touch of her hands burn through every layer blocking their skin from direct contact, and Lydia feels genuinely dizzy. Her heart is beating at a hazardous beat that almost matches that of the music, frantic and exaggerated.

It's a giddy distraction, one that serves it's purpose exceptionally well.

In fact, it's only once they're back at the Institute, once Lydia is trapped in her washboard-pressed covers, her blonde hair twisted into an intricate braid, that she allows herself to reflect on what actually happened.

With the faint touch of her fingers on her mouth, tracking the ghost of Isabelle's lips, Lydia tries to promise herself not to let this moment control her.

Attempts to promise herself, that she won't let Isabelle complete her the way John did. Because she's already lost John, and she doesn't even have Isabelle, not really.

It was a one night thing, a chance accident.

Nothing more.

  


* * *

  


It happens again. Barely a week later.  


Jace and Clary are at the Hotel Dumort, checking up on Simon, and Alec is at Magnus' apartment for a dinner date. Maryse and Robert are in Idris, and as the deputy Head of the NY Institute, Lydia is left with finishing up the rest of the reports.

It had taken her half an hour and an exhausting litany of reassurances to convince Alec to leave. He'd only stopped intermittently texting her twenty minutes ago. A tedious stack of files is more than worth the smile that Alec will no doubt be sporting when he returns, hopefully not until the following afternoon.

She's not sure where Isabelle is, until the door to her office - which she shares, for the most part, with Alec - opens, and Lady Lightwood herself waltzes in.

"Hey," Isabelle greets, softly.

They haven't seen much of each other since the nightclub incident. For a moment, Lydia worries that things between them will be awkward. But Isabelle struts over and perches herself up on the corner of the desk, grinning widely, and everything feels normal.

At least, while she pushes aside her own intrusive feelings.

"Hi,"

Her own voice is thankfully solid. She doesn't look up from the file in front of her; partly because it is nearly completed, but mostly because she isn't sure about what she's going to see when she looks up, and she certainly isn't sure if she's ready to see it.

"You've been locked up in here all day," Isabelle states. She absentmindedly twirls a thick thread of dark hair around her finger, a tight coil of midnight. "There's no patrols, the Institute is practically empty-"

"I still have a few files to complete," Lydia glances up, which is a mistake. Isabelle is staring at her, peeling back the layers to the truth behind Lydia's delicately positioned facade of false composure.

"And I'm bored. And lonely." Isabelle leans forward, her face inches from Lydia's. There's the tiniest smear of pink at the corner of her mouth, a little smudge visible only when she smirks, as she is now.

Lydia, subconsciously, reaches forward and wipes the colour away. It simply won't do for Isabelle Lightwood's makeup to be anything but perfect.

Their lips are pressed together before Lydia can even blink. Her mouth parts, of it's own accord, and Isabelle takes it as an invitation to press closer.

And then a stray elbow knocks the pen holder onto the floor, and Isabelle laughs, her breath a light scoff over Lydia's mouth.

Lydia pulls back, because she has to.

"Oops." Isabelle giggles. Lydia wants to join in the merriment, but she can't.

"What are we doing, Isabelle?" Her voice is unfortunately harsh, but it's not as though she can take it back now.

She'd worked too hard, her whole life but especially these last few months, getting where she is, to take back the words she says. If she doesn't mean the words that fall from her lips then there is no point in even forming them.

"Having fun," Isabelle's voice is so soft it's almost heartbreaking. "If I've overstepped, Lyd, I'm sorry."

"I can't do-" Lydia sighs. "I can't go into something, like this - again. Not - not if it doesn't mean anything."

"I understand." Isabelle reaches out, and takes the pen in Lydia's hand. Her fingers are gentle, albeit slightly calloused, and they seep warmth when pressed to Lydia's.

"Look, Lydia. I like you." It's simple. Straightfoward. The way Lydia needs it. Not that it helps her understand.

"Meliorn?"

It's not a question she wants to ask, but rather one she has to. They haven't spoken about the night of the clubbing, but as far as Lydia is aware, it was a one off thing. She doesn't want to intrude upon a relationship.

Isabelle glances away, at the little statute of Jonathan Shadowhunter on the bookshelf to her left. It's a small token from Lydia's past, a reminder of the life she had before New York.

"We're not a thing anymore. After the trial and everything else - it just wasn't working as well for us, so we ended it."

"I'm sorry," Lydia apologises, because it's the appropriate response, but also, because she genuinely is sorry that it happened to Isabelle.

Isabelle shrugs. "It's in the past," She glances back, her long eyelashes fluttering. There's a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, waiting for it's time. "I'm more concerned with where _we_ stand."

"I like you, too." Although, Lydia thinks, that sounds too simple. "But, aren't you worried?"

"About what?" Isabelle asks. "My parents? Screw them, they've never approved of any relationship I've had before. Who knows, maybe they'll prefer you. About us?"

Isabelle leans in, until Lydia has nowhere else to look. "I'm not saying we jump into a steady, established relationship. But if you're interested, I'd like to see where things can go."

Lydia breathes in deeply. It's a very simple notion requiring a difficult answer. Accepting Isabelle's figurative olive-branch would mean starting the first, at the very least casual relationship, since the death of her fiance.

And there's no guarantee that any of this could work. It could all come crashing down around her in burning shards of destruction.

Or.

It could work out really well. Things between them could be - could be good. Better, even.

She won't know for sure unless she tries. So with a deep, shaky breath and foreign anxiety scratching at her lungs, Lydia leaps into the unknown and hopes for the best.

  


* * *

  


It's - casual. Things between Lydia and Isabelle. Nothing too serious, nothing worth making too much of a fuss over.

Lydia's never had a relationship that didn't clearly define where it would lead to, one without any boundaries or guidlines or rules to follow. It's weird, at first, and a little hard, to do something new, something she's never even considered doing before. But Isabelle makes it easy, Isabelle makes it - she makes it fun.

Her life isn't drastically changed, either, like she expects it to. She still co-runs the Institute, still trains, and deflects calls from the Clave - neither her, nor Alec, are children, they know how to do their job - and still gets to live in this new life she's built for herself.

Lydia just, also, sometimes, gets to kiss Isabelle. Or, watch a movie with Isabelle's arm wrapped around her waist. Little things, little, couple-y things that she'd missed without actually realising it.

(All in the private confines of their own respective quarters, of course.)

Not that it's the same with Isabelle. Nothing Isabelle does can fit within the realms of 'ordinary', and her more romantic mannerisms are no exception. They've agreed to keep the details of their relationship secret, for the time being at least.

They need to figure things out for themselves before they involve anyone else.

  


* * *

  


If there's anyone that Lydia expects to discover the truth, it's certainly not who actually does.

Even Jace would have been less of a surprise.

"Relationships are a funny thing, aren't they?"

Lydia stills, her finger hovering above the glowing tech-pad in her hand. Composure is a fickle thing, but a mask of control is something she's gotten better at containing.

"I suppose." She swallows her nerve and turns around. "You'd have more experience in that area than I, certainly."

Magnus is decked out in full-gear. Turquoise eyeliner, shimmering charcoal eyeshadow, glistening cherry-red lipgloss, fresh blonde tips in his fashionably-spiked hair. Fitted cerulean blazer with a matching silk scarf, _tight_ black pants that must have been magicked on, and sequined silver lace-up ankle boots with a thin heel.

He's smiling, pleasant as always, but there's a flickering shadow in his glamoured eyes. He's far more aware of the truth than he's letting on.

"Some might agree with that." Magnus steps foward, his shoes making a crisp _click-click_ sound. He's as graceful as Isabelle in such towering heels. Lydia's only slightly jealous.

"But I'm not here to talk about myself." Magnus grins, realising the amusement in his own statement.

"No," Lydia acknowledges. "You're supposed to be here to reinforce the wards. And, if it takes your fancy, to visit Alec."

Magnus sighs. "Unfortunately, it seems training with his newly-returned _parabatai_ is of more immediate importance to Alexander. Alas, who am I to question his order of priorities?"

"His boyfriend." Lydia states, swiping her finger across the pad. The security appears to be tight, but in the light of Valentine's return, there is no such thing as being 'too careful'.

Magnus grins. It's giddy and sweet, and beneath her 'Head of the Institute' facade, Lydia finds it adorable.

"So I am." Magnus tilts his head, his eyes gleaming curiously. It's unclear what he's thinking, but Lydia can't imagine it will be good for her.

"You know, I forgot to mention it, at the wedding-"

"You're deflecting," Magnus twists the chunky ring on the middle finger of his left hand, and looks up, gaze crystaline and sharp. "You're good, Ms Branwell, but I've been around for a few too many centuries to be fooled that easily."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Lydia flicks her braid behind her back and double-taps the security camera in front of the Institute doors.

She brings it up to the wider screen. There's a blur, suddenly, her spine straightening as she automatically braces. She can feel Magnus next to her, but her concentration is focused on more important things for the time being, instead of whatever he thinks he knows.

If there's a potential breach to the Institute, she needs to make sure that everyone is aware and alert, that the appropriate security controls are in place, that-

"Bloody hell, Simon."

The naieve former-mundane-turned-vampire stands on the steps to the building, his plaid overshirt flapping in the wind. He's finally stopped wearing glasses - it's not like they were really helping him anymore - and he's shuffling from side to side.

"What is he waiting for, an invitation?"

Magnus chuckles lightly. For a fleeting second, Lydia had forgotten that he was there.

"He's a Downworlder, dear." Magnus lifts his arms up, and folds them over his chest. "And a vampire, at that. Technically, he isn't allowed on the grounds of the Institute without an invitation, of sorts. Even the hallowed ground is protected."

Lydia swears under her breath, and looks up sheepishly. "Right. Sorry, I - I can't believe I forgot about ... that's really rude and improper."

Magnus shrugs. "It's not like you were talking about me. And what Sheldon doesn't know, won't hurt him."

Lydia scoffs out a laugh, and then hastily covers it up with her hand. It's almost as improper. Magnus smirks, and there's a wash of hope that Alec will walk by, and he'll be distracted and they won't have to finish their conversation.

But then the light in Magnus' eyes dims, and Lydia knows that any hope is futile.

"Please, feel free to correct me if I am wrong - it wouldn't be the first time - but, you and our lovely Isabelle ... am I correct in assuming that something is going on between the two of you?"

Lydia grips her pad tighter, until it becomes too likely that it will break, and she has to force her grip to loosen.

"We're not - it's not serious." She admits.

"I never said it was," Magnus replies, not unkindly.

His voice is soft, and Lydia seriously wonders why other Nephilim - the Clave, specifically - have such a twisted view on him, particuarly. He's one of the nicest people she's ever met. Period. Neither the material of his blood, nor the lineage of his parentage plays any part in that.

"I'm happy for the two of you." Magnus states. "If that's worth anything. And, not that _this_ fact is worth much at all, but if you ever decide to, 'go public' with your relationship, you have my support behind you."

"Thank you, Magnus." Lydia smiles, summoning as much strength as she can gather in spite of the anxiety scratching at her insides. She's never been good at personal things, let alone at admitting them. "It does mean something. It means a lot, to me."

Magnus smiles, and then they both hear the slightly distant sound of his name being called. Alec is standing against the rails, towel slung around his neck, his expression one caught between puzzlement and badly concealed delight.

"And, whilst I may indeed be wrong, I have the feeling that Alec would be of the same mind."

Lydia nods weakly. "You should probably-"

"Yes," For a moment Magnus looks conflicted, but then his expression smoothes over and the tension is gone. "Thank you for the little chat, Lydia, it was wonderful. Perhaps, we could set something up, in future."

"Sure," Lydia's smile morphs into one of genuinity. "That sounds great. Now, if you don't mind, I need to find out what Simon wants - before he accidentally sets off an alarm or something."

More than that, Lydia needs to escape before she suffocates.

  


* * *

  


Lydia lasts a solid, two-and-a-half weeks, before she properly freaks out.

It happens suddenly, without warning, like the snap of a thread that has been strained to breaking point.

She's in the middle of putting away her laundry. A simple task.

After the intial shock has worn off, she finds herself gripping the gilded closet doors, her knuckles tense and grey. It could be the stress of knowing that Maryse and Robert are due back in New York within the month, it could even be leftover stress bleeding in from Alec, considering their close working space. Or maybe, she's just hit the point of no return.

The only thing Lydia knows, is that she has to see Isabelle.

The problem is, Isabelle's out on patrol. And Lydia's issue is not drastic or important enough to tear her away from her duties.

So she waits, until the confirmation that the task-team that were sent out are safe and accounted for, before texting Isabelle - her needs are second priority in comparison to the safety of mundanes and the safety of her fellow Shadowhunters.

**[TO] Iz Lightwood :** _We need to talk. Is there somewhere you can meet me?_

_  
_

* * *

  


_"I'll be fine."_ That's what she'd told Alec. Back then, it hadn't been something she entirely believed. She just knew that Alec needed to hear it, needed that little nudge to go after what he really wanted.

_"It was the right thing to do."_ She'd said it then, and she stands by it now. It had been the right thing to do, and of that, she was certain.

Starting this - this _thing_ , with Isabelle ... that's something she's a little less certain of.

They arrange to meet at Taki's, a little hideaway joint that serves better food than you'd expect from it's hole-in-the-wall appearance. Lydia sneaks into a booth towards the back, where they have a greater chance of privacy.

She fends off pestering questions about Jace from a pink-haired Fae as she waits, her skin itching with each second that passes by without Isabelle's presence.

Thankfully, Isabelle sweeps in a few minutes after Lydia has shooed Kaelie away for the third time.

"Hey," Isabelle's disposition is cheery and sweet. The last thing Lydia wants to do is shatter it.

"Hi." It's short and curt, and Isabelle sees right through it.

"What's wrong?" She asks, sliding into the booth opposite Lydia.

She could say 'nothing'. She could lie, and pretend that everything is okay, even though it isn't. She could say that she just wanted to see Isabelle, which wouldn't be a lie, but wouldn't be the whole truth either.

Lydia presses her mouth together firmly, and forces herself to lock eyes with Isabelle. She deserves respect, after all, it's not her fault that Lydia is having a mini-internal breakdown.

"What-" She forces herself to breathe. "Where is this going? What are we doing?"

Isabelle blinks slowly, her wide, beautiful eyes peeling away every layer Lydia built up to protect herself.

"We're taking this slowly," Isabelle reminds her. "Do you not want to do that anymore?"

"No, it's - it's not that." Lydia fights to regain control. "I love, what we have," She explains. "But I can't help but feel that ... I'm worried that it doesn't mean - enough."

Lydia grimaces even before the words are out. That's not what she meant to say, or rather, that's not how she wanted it to come out.

Her hands are clapsed on the table in front of her. Isabelle reaches out and covers them with her own hand.

"I don't want to let this go," Lydia whispers. "And I'm afraid that something will go wrong and I'll have to."

_'I don't want to lose_ you _I'm worried I'll have to_ lose you _'._

Isabelle smiles empathetically, and slides her hand up, her fingers wrapping slowly around Lydia's wrist. "Why would you have to lose this?"

"Because - because it's not that serious," Lydia explains. She sounds pitiful and weak, and she hates it.

"This is pretty serious to me." Isabelle states. There's nothing but genuity and kindness in her tone. "If you're worried about that - well, then you really have nothing to worry about. Unless, to you, it's-"

"It's serious to me, as well. Definitely." Lydia assures her, because she can't handle the idea of Isabelle thinking otherwise.

"Good."

Isabelle grins, and everything feels normal again.

**  
**

* * *

****

  


They have a debriefing in ten minutes.

They're supposed to be analysing correlations between the appearance of demonic hordes and the increase in mundane requests for demon summonings.

Alec _and_ Lydia are supposed to be leading the meeting. Magnus is supposed to turn up, too. To provide information from his side of things.

And yet, none of that bothers Lydia. Because Isabelle is smirking against the cut of her jaw, her hand is tangled in Isabelle's cascading waves of dark hair, and there is nothing more important than transferring them to a comfier place than the bumpy carvings of the wooden door to Lydia's room.

There's a bed barely two feet away. Somehow, she needs to regain enough control to think logically and figure out how to get them there.

Isabelle's breath is hot and persistent and unforgiving.

Suddenly. Lydia has an idea.

For a Shadowhunter, and a fairly built one at that, Isabelle is fairly light. It takes barely any energy for Lydia to lift her up, arms around her back. On instinct, Isabelle wraps her legs around Lydia's back, her ankles crossed, her arms looped around Lydia's neck.

Isabelle huffs through a teasing smile, as Lydia steps forward. "That was unexpected."

"We only have ten minutes." Lydia states, carefully depositing Isabelle onto the bed.

Isabelle gracefully scoots back. Her hair is tangled and curled, beautifully messy thanks to Lydia's roaming hands. Her dark eyes are lined and sparkling with persistent mirth, her lips red and swollen. She is quite possibly the prettiest thing Lydia has ever seen.

"Then why are we wasting time?" Isabelle asks, and it seems like such a ridiculous question. Lydia clambers onto the bed, with questionable grace, not that it's a problem, for Isabelle reaches out and tugs her forward.

They don't go beyond kissing. They never have. It's a silent agreement between the two of them, to refrain from going any further until they are both comfortable with clearly defining whatever it is they have between them.

That, and Lydia has never been with a girl before. In fact, she'd never really regarded women in that respect before Isabelle had come along.

Truth be told, she's absolutely terrified. (It doesn't help that her feelings for Isabelle scare her almost as much.)

Still. Isabelle is gorgeous, and incredibly skilled at kissing - Lydia frets when consdering what more Isabelle is good at - and for the moment, at least, kissing is more than just enough.

Isabelle's lips are warm and caressing, her hands expertly roaming beneath Lydia's tight shirt. Lydia straddles her hips, her knees bracketing Isabelle's thighs, her hands clutching at Isabelle's shoulders, needing something to keep her upright. The dizzying ecstasy is almost enough to displace her equilibrium, send her toppling over like a house of cards.

It's still so new, and different, and - it was alright, before, when Lydia's feelings were just something she kept locked inside of her own heart. But now she has the chance, the privilege, to touch and kiss, and maybe, one day, possibly more, and it's okay - which is something she still has to remind herself of, more than once a day, because it's still so unbelievable-

"Lydia."

Isabelle's voice is firm yet kind, and it pulls Lydia out of her thoughts, if momentarily. Her piercing eyes are unforgiving, but the hand she caresses Lydia's cheek with is gentle and patient.

She doesn't speak, and at first, Lydia is confused. Why did Isabelle say her name if she's not planning on actually saying anything? Has she wasted time by fretting over inconsequential nonsense instead of-

Wait. No. Isabelle's looking at her, _looking through her_ , which means that either Lydia has missed something she's said, or Isabelle is simply waiting for her to speak first.

"I was stuck in my head again, huh?" Lydia feigns a joke, but she knows, before she's even finished her sentence, that she's not fooling either of them.

"Is something wrong?" Isabelle asks, concern washing through her tone. "If you're uncomfortable with this, we can stop."

"It's not that." Lydia reassures her. It's a ridiculous thoguht. As though she could ever feel uncomfortable because of Isabelle.

(Because of her feelings for Isabelle, maybe...)

"I'm sorry, things are just a bit tense at the moment. Still, it was rude of me to allow it to distract me."

Isabelle laughs softly, her thumb brushing across Lydia's cheek. "That's not rude." She states. "It's human. Nothing wrong with it. If you need to talk, I'm here to listen."

Lydia forces a weak smile. "Not - not now." _Not ever._ "I don't think there's really enough time."

Isabelle purses her mouth, but nods. "Fair enough. But, later?"

"Sure."

She hates lying, at all, but especially to Isabelle. But it's hard to express her feelings to someone else when she's not even sure of them herself.

  


* * *

  


It becomes easier, if unfortunately so, to hide her fears, to bury them far beneath the surface where they have little chance of seeing the light of day. Lydia buries herself in her work, and here, and there, in the curve of Isabelle's neck or the curtain of her hair.

She can feel herself falling, faster and further with each day that passes, but as long as she doesn't allow herself to think about it, it doesn't pose that much of an issue.

It's not healthy. Far from it. But it's what she has to do to survive.

"Did you know that Iz has a diary?"

Lydia frowns, somewhat on reflex, and looks up from the endless pile of paperwork in front of her. The Clave are breathing down their necks, almost invasively, and any miniscule slip-up will result in them storming in with their stony blank faces and their judgemental eyes.

The tightrope they walk on is thin enough, between the mishap that had been the almost-wedding, and Jace siding with Valentine, Lydia doesn't really want to give them any more incentive to take over. It had been hard enough trying to convince them to let her co-lead the Institute. And keep Jace here.

They still want to perversely interrogate him, but while Valentine is still a threat - and a very prominent one - they are forced to take what Jace will admit and release him to the confines of the New York Institute. He's a phenomenenly skilled Shadowhunter. They don't have the luxury of locking him up in the Silent City for weeks, or months, on end.

"I wasn't aware, no. Was I supposed to be privy to that?"

Alec shrugs, and shuts the door behind him. Lydia doubts his introductory question was his only incentive for coming here. Sometimes, he's far sneakier than she gives him credit for.

"I walked in, to remind her to hand her patrol report into Raj, and she slammed this - journal ... _thing_ \- down, and then glared at me for not knocking." Alec frowns, in that way that's clear he doesn't understand his sister. "She never knocks before barging in on me."

Lydia smiles fondly, without quite realising it. "What Isabelle expects and what she does, do not necessarily correlate."

"True." Alec nods, and slowly crosses the room - though, due to his tall frame, it only takes him three steps to reach the other side of her desk. He nods to the water jug on her desk. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not." Lydia answers, finishing the rest of the file in front of her.

Alec pours himself a glass, and then one for her, before pulling up a chair and sinking into it. He sighs, heavily, and Lydia feels sympathetic. His life hasn't been that easy since the wedding, either, between attempting to date for the first time - ever - and fighting off the prejudicial stigma of his parents, and the older generation of Shadowhunters.

Her position isn't ideal, but if she had the chance, she probably wouldn't swap places with him.

"You know, I could have taken some of the load." Alec says, indicating the files. It's sweet, but pointless.

"You were at Magnus'," Lydia says, with a smile, because she's not upset - to any degree - and she doesn't want Alec to get the wrong impression. "And, besides, I don't mind. It gives me something to do."

"I could have taken some of it with me," Alec protests. Lydia, respectfully, waits for him to finish, even though she knows she's just going to deny everything. "Or, not, not stayed the night-"

"That's ridiculous, Alec." Lydia interrupts gently. "You work hard enough as it is, you deserve a break. And you and Magnus have every right to spend time with each other. You already spend far too much time ... here."

She feels slightly apologetic, considering she hadn't quite intended to say all of that, but she means it, and Alec needs to know that. Even if it's caused his cheeks to visibly brighten.

"That doesn't mean that you have to do everything." Alec protests.

Lydia rolls her eyes and takes a slow sip of her water. Alec's still blushing when she looks up at him.

"Okay, you have a point." Alec admits. He's quiet, for a few seconds, but Lydia doubts that he'd come in here for just a glass of water.

And isn't it strange, that she _knows_ Alec so well, even at this point in their - acquaintance? Friendship? Can she classify them as friends?

"I've noticed," Alec approaches his line of questioning carefully, kindly. Lydia appreciates his care, though she sees through his facade of casualty. "You seem a bit - off, recently. You, and Isabelle, you're both acting - different."

He's looking down, at the glass in his hands, specifically not at Lydia. It's only _slightly_ disconcerting.

"I asked Magnus about it," Alec continues, and it's horrible, but Lydia's first, fleeting thought is _'of course you did'._ She dismisses it quickly, because it sounds a little too passive-aggressive, and kind of rude.

"He said that he might know something, but even if he did, it wasn't his place to tell me." Alec frowns, and it's endearing and oddly familiar. "I'm still not entirely sure what he meant. Anyway, my point is - I don't know what's going on, or even if something is-"

Lydia's heart falters.

"But I don't care. It's none of my business. Providing nothing is wrong, and neither of you are in harm's way, I don't need to know."

It's hard to determine whether Alec properly knows, or simply assumes based on what knowledge he does have, and Magnus' somewhat cryptic comments. Either way, it's clear that he supports them, even just the idea of them. Which is - it's nice.

It's not something that Lydia had been expecting, but it's still something she appreciates.

The pleasantness doesn't last, unfortunately. In the late hours of the night, her mind spirals down into an abyss of concerning thoughts she has no hope of dissipating.

Because, if Magnus knows - and if _Alec_ , no offence intended, can figure it out - how obvious are her feelings?

  


* * *

  


The answer, as it so turns out, is actually fairly obvious.

Lydia prefers to reserve judgement, but Simon can be a little oblivious at times. It's probably not his fault, he is a Mundane after all. They weren't brought up with the expectations the Shadowhunters were, to always be on alert, to pick up on miniscule details because missing something could result in injury or death.

Simon had been able to tell when Clary begun to have feelings for Jace. Everyone had, it wasn't exactly hidden, but Simon had sulked around, glared at Jace behind his back, and was generally very moody all the time.

Now, his gaze keeps flitting between Isabelle and Lydia, curiously, almost. It isn't entirely clear if he knows what is actually going on, but at the very least, he definitely suspects something.

It's unnerving, to say the least.

She catches him watching them - they're going over the surveillance cameras, they're not even doing anything ... inappropriate. They're just doing their jobs. But Simon's cheeks are a little redder than normal and he keeps looking at them, and Lydia doesn't know whether she should be feeling uncomfortable or not.

It's not like she's doing anything wrong. It's not like he and Isabelle are dating - sure, he probably has a crush on her, but they're not in a relationship. At least, Lydia doesn't think so.

It's just all so confusing.

  


* * *

  


Flirting is just in Isabelle's nature. It's a part of who she is, and most of the time, she doesn't even notice.

Lydia notices though. And it's unsettling.

It's a casual thing. Sometimes Isabelle will smile in a sultry manner to get information, or lean in a little close to distract the person they're trying to question, or just - just something like that. But with Simon, it's a little different.

With Simon, it's the odd hair flick or slightly drooped eyes, a hand on Simon's arm or even once convincing him to eat her - frankly toxic-looking dish - by pouting.

It's nothing that crosses any boundaries - not that there are really boundaries around a relationship that doesn't technically exist.

She feels like she's been shoved into second-place, but there's no one who has taken first yet. There is no one in first place.

(Maybe that's her problem.)

The fizzling jealously quickly becomes too much, and so Lydia turns to the only other person she can't trust in this situation.

Or, rather, the two people.

"Drink?"

"Uh, water, please." Lydia requests politely. "Alcohol gives me a headache."

Magnus grins, one hand on his liquor cart. "That just means you haven't found the right one for you."

Regardless of his opinions, a few minutes later he hands her a crystalline glass of icy water. The cubes clink against the rim of the glass. It's surprisingly beautiful.

"Not, that we're unhappy you're here," Alec approaches the subject cautiously. He's leaning against a pillar in Magnus' living room - Lydia's pretty sure it hadn't been there a few days ago.

Near them, Magnus bustles around, visibly trying not to invade Lydia's privacy. It's very kind, and appreciated.

"But, what brings you - here?"

Alec's forehead scrunches, and Lydia exhales heavily.

"I need relationship advice." She admits, because technically, that's what she's here for. Not that what she and Isabelle have is really a _relationship_ , per se, but still.

Alec looks considerably uncomfortable. She feels a little bad, truly, but she needs to talk to someone and she trusts them more than, well, anyone else. And she can't exactly talk to Isabelle about it.

"What do you need advice with, darling?" Magnus asks, taking the reigns. Lydia smiles gratefully.

"Jealousy," She states, before clarifying: "Feeling, jealous, that is."

Magnus nods, as though he understands - he probably does, Lydia realises. He's been around for longer than any of them, he's probably experienced jealousy many times before.

At least, she hopes.

She's caught Alec's attention. He's watching her, curiously. Passive, but interested. Maybe he had some thoughts on it too.

"It can be an uncontrollable raging beast." Magnus acknowledges. His rings clink idly against his glass, the whiskey inside it a burning honey-gold. "Difficult to maintain at the best of times. If you can manage to keep your emotions in check, it's a little easier to prevent any ill-conceived actions."

"It also depends on the level of jealousy," Alec's voice is kind and soft. Like he's talking from experience. "And whether it's founded."

Magnus smiles, amusedly. There's a fond look of adoration in his eyes, despite the fact that he's not even looking at Alec. It's Lydia's firm belief that Alec is falling for Magnus - even as she denies the spiral of her own feelings - but if there is one thing that is clearer than the glass in her hand, it's the love that Magnus has for Alec. It practically shines through him.

"Sometimes, you can feel jealous just - just because." Alec states. His arms are still folded, but his posture is a lot more relaxed. Either he's beginning to get more comfortable in the situation, or he's too distracted by the conversation to notice.

"It's irrational and annoying, but it can get in the road and - and just mess you up." Alec taps the side of his head, sympathy shimmering in his eyes. "In here."

"So, is it founded?" Magnus asks. He knows, what Lydia means, what she's not saying. He always seems to _know._

"I think so," She whispers. "But what if I'm wrong? What if I'm just imagining things, or overexaggerating them?"

It's a genuine worry. She could ruin everything.

It's a horrible feeling, to be stressing over such nonsense things, to be fretting over what she says and does and what things may or may not mean. Lydia prides herself on being firm and unwavering in her beliefs, her actions, her thoughts. She's a leader, the point of reference, the one that others turn to for advice.

It shouldn't have to be the other way around. She should know, without feeling like she has to doubt every minuscule thing.

"We're not the ones you need to be talking about this with." Magnus takes a slow, delicate sip of his drink. Alec's watching her, cataloguing her every movements.

They're both too observant for her good.

  


* * *

  


She has to talk to Isabelle. That's the logical step. And she fully intends on doing it.

But then there's a rumour, that sweeps in from the vampires, who claim to have seen Forsaken dragging around outer region alleyways. The werewolves, though reluctantly, do back up the statements.

Clary and Simon track around the Hotel Dumort, with Jace tagging along because he can't stand the idea of the two being left alone. As though they're going to do anything.

Alec co-ordinates the mission from the Institute - one of them has to stay behind, in case the representatives from the Clave drop in earlier than expected - and leaves Isabelle and Lydia to investigate a potential lead.

It's a classic, crumbling abandoned warehouse type-scenario. The kind they use as stimulations for training exercises. The kind they've been through time and time again.

Which leaves them with ample opportunity to speak, providing Lydia can conjure up enough nerve to actually speak her mind.

There's nothing necessarily out of the ordinary outside the warehouse, the pavement is all cracked cement and scattered stones that Isabelle should by all rights slip on, considering her freaking twelve-inch heels, but by some otherworldly miracle she doesn't.

Lydia stakes the perimeter and Isabelle scans the lower floor, her steps slow and sure. Her boots make steady tapping noises that echo out of the cracked glass windows - Lydia can hear them from outside. It's a small comfort, to know that she's okay, inside, all alone.

Not that she has any need - or right - to worry about Isabelle. She can take care of herself, more than that, she's proven herself as even better than the best, at times, when required.

Lydia, try as she might, can't help it. She worries about Isabelle as much as she does the rest of them - more, because she's beginning to realise that her feelings for the dark-haired Shadowhunter aren't as simple as she'd believed.

They are far more complicated, and far stronger, than she thought possible.

"Hey, Lyd!" Isabelle's voice echoes out from the building. "I think I might have found something."

Lydia locks her personal thoughts away, and slips into Shadowhunter-mode. It's the safest option. Her feelings could get her, or Isabelle, killed, especially because neither can really determine what they're walking in to.

Lydia carefully bumps the door with her shoulder, aware of the creak it makes as it swings open. The floor is even more dangerous and gravel ridden inside, and Lydia is careful to step where it's sturdy and 'safe'. Isabelle is standing, a few metres away at the entrance to a seperate room. Well, room is a bit of a stretch. There's technically four walls, no door though, and the floor isn't really a floor so much as it's the ground. Actual ground. Dirt and stone and earth.

Isabelle is standing next to what, at first, looks like a crater in the ground. Her hands are on her hips, her plum lips pulled into a coy smirk. She looks like the epitome of the mundane saying, 'the cat that caught the canary'.

It stirs at something inside Lydia's chest, something she chooses to ignore. It is neither the place nor the time.

"Check this out." Isabelle says, once Lydia gets closer. What she'd presumed to be a crater, was in fact a pool of oily, disgusting black ichor.

"Demonic?" Lydia asks, to be certain.

"Looks like it," Comes Isabelle's reply. "I don't understand why it's all clumped here, though. It looks like a demon has just, melted." She sniffs, and automatically scrunches up her nose. "Aren't demons supposed to _poof_ back to the lower realms when they're killed? They don't - stick around."

Lydia nods. It's unusual, to say the least. The only problem is, there's no explanation for-

"Isabelle!"

"What?" Isabelle looks up, glass vial in one hand, cotton bud in the other. She's resting her weight on the balls of her feet, her knees bent, precariously close to the puddle of demon remains. Lydia isn't quite sure where she was hiding them, and she prefers not to ask.

"I need a sample. How else are we supposed to figure out what it is - in case it's not actually demon ichor - if I don't run tests on them?"

"We should bring in back-up support, proper teams and precautions in case something goes wrong, you can't - you can't just take your own sample." Lydia replies, exasperatedly.

Isabelle deposits the stick into the vial and stands up, far more gracefully than she has any right to. "Already done. Stop fretting, you'll create wrinkles. I tell Alec off for that enough, I don't want to have to start telling you as well." There's a teasing note to her voice.

Lydia's struck with the deep-set urge to kiss her, despite the disgustingness of their surroundings.

"We'd better drop that off at the labs." She states, her voice weak around the edges. "We've got a sample, that's all we need."

Isabelle pauses, and Lydia wonders if she'll protest. The thing is, she doesn't really want to go snooping around the rest of the warehouse with just the two of them. Neither of them can determine what they'll find, or how dangerous it will be.

This is Valentine they're dealing with. He's not exactly clear about his methods.

"Alright," Isabelle reluctantly admits defeat. "Let's get this back to the Institute. See what we can find out."

It's uplifting, and unnerving, to see Isabelle so excited over investigating the compounds of demon ichor.

Heartwarming, too. Just a little bit.

  


* * *

  


Isabelle is surprisigly cute in a labcoat. She struts around the lab in her skyscraper heels, hair twisted into an intricate bun, her stele stuck in the middle to hold it all together, her lips a brilliant red. Lydia doesn't personally see the point in dressing up, considering Isabelle is only going to end up slicking her medical-grade gloves with demon ichor, anyway.

She doesn't question it. Just perches herself on a stool in the corner of the room and watches Isabelle go about her business with idle curiosity. She's been down here before, a few times - even investigated the occasional deceased organism.

But no one carries the same flair that Isabelle does. It's incredible to witness.

"It certainly has the same compounds of demon ichor," Isabelle mumbles, mostly to herself, it seems. "But there's something else to it - something's not quite right."

She's enchantingly beautiful beneath the fluroscent lab lights. Which is an interesting thing to consider, Lydia thinks, because no one has any right to that; she's certain she looks like a Forsaken at the moment.

"Lydia!"

The high octaves of Isabelle's voice are enough to shock Lydia out of her trancelike state, and almost tip her off her chair. Isabelle is smiling amusedly, like Lydia has done something cute or funny. It's a better reception than anger.

"Sorry," Lydia grimaces. "I must have spaced out."

"I asked if you wanted to end the day here, and maybe organise something to eat." Isabelle tilts her head, almost minutely, her dark eyes wide and intense. "It's getting late."

Lydia glances casually at her watch, and freezes. It's almost midnight.

"I don't know how I missed this." She admits. "I'm so sorry to have kept you this late."

Isabelle frowns adorably. "You didn't keep me late. It was my decision." She reaches out and gently cups Lydia's cheek. The palm of her hand is warm and soothing.

"I want to figure this out as much as you." Isabelle promises. "And the fact that we don't know is exciting _and_ irritating."

Her eyes soften, and Lydia is overtaken by a sudden desire to lean in and kiss Isabelle. She resists, though it's hard.

"Neither of us will be able to continue without food and sleep." Isabelle pulls back. Lydia physically feels the distance.

"I suppose you're right," She admits. It's hard not to. Isabelle isn't really leaving much room for argument. "What do you have in mind?"

Isabelle grins, and it sends a tantalising shiver down Lydia's spine. It's been a while since she's really felt like this. It's oddly nostalgic.

And dangerous.

  


* * *

  


"A midnight picnic."

It sounds as ridiculous aloud as it does in her head, but Isabelle grins proudly and continues gathering food from the fridge and slipping it into an oversized picnic basket. Lydia didn't even know that they had one in the Institute. It's not really a tradition for Nephilim.

She's probably participated in maybe two picnics in her whole life. It's not necessarily something she's ever felt as though she's missed out on, but the prospect of sharing in it with Isabelle - at midnight - sounds enticing, to say the least.

"We're already awake," Isabelle reasons. "And it's a fun way to kind of spice things up. Picnics are great! I remember when Alec used to hate picnics - it might be because when I was fourteen I organised one at an old graveyard because I heard there was a weapons crypt; there wasn't, unfortunately, but it was a memorable experience."

The ease with which Isabelle recounts tales about escapades she and Alec have shared is heartwarming; they really do share a close, special bond. Lydia recalls, back when she was still engaged to Alec - if she can really call it an engagement - she'd thought that Isabelle hated her. For her existence, possibly, or even because of her arrangement with Alec.

It's hard to imagine that either of them could have expected the events that actually transpired. Alec, summoning his courage and deciding his own path in front of Clave representatives. Pursuing his first ever relationship. Her and Isabelle, engaging in their own - whatever this is.

It's all very surreal.

Isabelle finishes packing the basket and leads Lydia to her bedroom. Her feather boa is draped along the end of the bed, a scattering of potential outfits splayed around the room. It's charmingly disorganised - and Lydia really wants to fix it.

"You can reorder my room once we've eaten," Isabelle allows, knowing what Lydia is thinking without her even having to say a word. It should be far less heartwarming than it actually is.

"Deal."

They perch themselves on either side of Isabelle's bed, the picnic basket situated between them. They chat idly, about their days and things that are bothering them - Maryse's constant intereference into how Alec and Lydia are running the Institute, the "ridiculously idiotic" assistants assigned to help Isabelle in the lab. Every now and then, their arms will brush, or the eye contact between them will last for a second longer than expected, small, almost insignificant things that stir at Lydia's heart and spread shivers along the surface of her skin.

It's been at least three days since they had a moment alone together. Probably four since they last kissed. It's created a yearning ache behind Lydia's ribs, and making it very hard for any comprehensible thoughts not to do with Isabelle to properly register in Lydia's mind.

She doesn't even notice that they've finished the food, and are now just sitting and looking at each other, without saying a word.

It's hard to tell who initiates the kiss. All Lydia cares about is closing the impossibly ridiculous distance between them. Her hand comes up, sliding beneath the curtain of Isabelle's hair, grasping at the back of her neck.

Isabelle sighs breathily and presses closer, her knee bumping against Lydia's hip. It's a little awkward, at first, their desperate need to remove any space conflicting with the physics of their position; eventually, Isabelle guides Lydia onto her back, the horizontal placement exponentially more comfortable. Lydia bites gently at Isabelle's bottom lip, leaning up to capture her mouth in a heated kiss. She straddles Lydia's hips, her hands resting on Lydia's waist, beneath her shirt, hot and firm. Lydia's ribcage trembles, her skin tingling deliciously. It brings an overwhelmingly exhilirating feeling, lying beneath Isabelle, privy to her whims and desires, even more so to her own.

There is no clear path laid out ahead of them. Lydia is unsteadily stumbling and falling in love with Isabelle, and although it scares her, she's discovering it's not something that she can stop. It's happening, and while it's not harming either of them, she just has to learn to let it happen.

She has no idea where to go from here. No idea what is in store for either of them. Whether they'll label what they share, or whether it will all crash and burn around them.

Lydia hadn't planned to fall in love with Isabelle. Her feelings had swooped in, a whirlwind of fluttering and raw emotions, and knocked her feet from out beneath her. She'd never had any hope of stopping them.

She didn't mean to fall in love. Not again, not so soon. Certainly not with Isabelle Lightwood. But she has. And trying to ignore such potent emotions because of an irrational fear of the unknown is simply ridiculous.

Maybe Isabelle will be the one to heal the wounds that losing John had created. Perhaps, Isabelle will be the one to bring her back the happiness she'd thought she'd lost forever.

Perhaps Isabelle is what she's been waiting for the whole time.

**Author's Note:**

> (This isn't as good as I wanted it to be, but it's a thing and I'm kind of proud of it, and it took me a few weeks so I don't want to just discard it. Maybe I'll write more and fix what I don't like.)
> 
> as a bi female it is amazingly fun to write F/F (also Emeraude and Stephanie are both so beautiful so any chance to describe their wonder is one I will jump at.)
> 
> btw I would totally marry Lydia. I wouldn't have left her at the altar. just saying.
> 
> \---
> 
> Once again, the biggest thanks to the lovely vulturemonem for all you have done. I look forward to future conquests. :D ;) <3


End file.
